


The Moth and the Flame

by iceblink



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-08-19
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-13 20:11:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,257
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2163657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iceblink/pseuds/iceblink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's Emma who's destined to break her; it's Emma who destroys her, time and time again. And the worst thing is, she can't bring herself to hate her.</p><p>SQ angst leading to eventual fluff, set after the S3 finale. Mentions of Hook but SwanQueen all the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Destruction

**Author's Note:**

> Against my better judgment (having had advance warning about Kitsis/Horowitz's contempt for SQ), I've started binge-watching OUAT, and, ugh, I'm now just a teensy bit obsessed with these two and all of their feels. So much so that it's inspired me to write my first ever fanfic, so please be nice.
> 
> No betas, and given that I'm writing this with jet lag, I apologise for what are likely to be manifold errors. I haven't seen all of the episodes yet, so there may be some factual mistakes too. Also, please ignore any Briticisms (although you can probably tell I'm British by the way I keep apologising for things...).
> 
> Just a warning that there is some self-harm in this story. 
> 
> Will probably end up being 3/4 chapters long.

It's been three days of feeling, old and new pain all swirled together, and she just wants it to stop, wants not to feel the terrible hurt from deep inside her soul. The anger is the easiest thing to feel, so familiar, this burning sensation that starts from low in the belly and ripples in waves towards her fingertips; her magic pulsing and beating, desperate to turn the anger into power and destroy a world that has done nothing but hurt her until she can no longer feel anything at all. But she knows she can't indulge it – save for smashing a few mirrors in a futile frenzy of rage – can't use the anger to numb everything all away. Because she has a son, a son who remembers her and loves her, and so she has to be better for him, has to be somebody deserving of his love.

And so the pain continues, the anger doesn't abate, and the only way she can find to numb it is in fitful sleep. But even then, she can't stop the dreams, blurry images of Daniel and Leopold and mother, of being strapped to a chair and tortured, of Henry hating her, Henry forgetting her, of all the pain from decades of her miserable existence combining in various shadowplays of surreal horror. On waking, she vaguely registers that Robin and Marian are barely in them, but doesn't have the strength of mind to really ponder what that means; besides, she's not sure she wants to know the answer. What she does know is that at the end of the dreams, it's always the same: visions of blonde curls and tendrils of blue magic intertwined with her own, set against the cackle of her mother laughing triumphantly, crowing that Regina is weak, she's always been weak, so very weak. Look at her, lying there in bed, completely defeated, unable – even now - to stop thinking of the very person who it seems is fated to destroy her again and again and again.

And as she wakes, gulping air, she laughs bitterly, for she knows, deep down, that she deserves it all, even this humiliation. She can never atone for what she's done, and, destiny having made it abundantly clear that she will never be forgiven, never be granted even the smallest happiness, the only thing she has left to do is revel in her own destruction. And so she scores deep gashes into her stomach, and back, using a penknife as she doesn't trust herself with her magic, and feels the pain bleed out of her all over the sheets as she sobs.

She's lost track of time, the minutes, hours and days bleeding into one another, but she knows that there have been knocks on her door, and, even though she's ignored them, because _nobody_ will see her like this, she just knows that it's Emma. And perhaps this is the masochism again, but there's a small part of her that wants to open it, wants the Savior to see what she's caused, what she's done. And probably Emma would laugh, just like Cora – and she'd deserve that, just like she _deserves_ all this pain - but perhaps – just perhaps Emma's face would crumple, and she'd gather Regina up in her arms and sob with her until they both fell asleep together on the bed. And then she hates herself more for such thoughts, hates Emma for inspiring them, hates her weakness. _See, Emma? See what you've done to me? See?_

* * *

 

On the fourth morning, she wakes up to find that the pain has broken, agony reduced to an aching in her limbs, a pain in her forehead, scabbing cuts over her body. She's slept, finally slept without dreaming, and it's pushed the feelings back into a dull, tired numbness. And so she wakes, and she gets up, and, seeing the destruction that she's wrought on herself and her house, starts to mechanically repair it. She doesn't use her magic, not wanting to risk finding again the anger that it feeds from, but numbly sweeps away the shards of glass, changes the sheets, places gauze and tape over her wounds - they sting, but there's nothing, luckily, that seems to need stitches – and by noon the house is immaculate again, and Regina is wrapped in her armor: black pantsuit, heels, painted on smirk. She's thrown the red dress she had been wearing into the trash; it hadn't suited her anyway, too soft, too pretty, and, besides, she'd bled all over it.

She leaves the house and steps into her Mercedes, her pride mandating that she face the town sooner rather than later. Feeling nothing, thinking nothing, she drives to the grocery store and walks in, picking out her typical selection of healthy items. She can sense the stares, hear the whispered comments of the other shoppers, but ignores them – in fact, they simply fortify her. She looks good, she knows that, and she won't be bowed, won't be pitied, won't allow herself to be humiliated. She pays for her shopping, all icy politeness and fake smiles, and returns to her car.

She debates where to go next. She contemplates going to the Charmings', arranging for Henry to come over for dinner in a couple of days, but the thought of Snow's patronising smile, of her and her brainless husband fawning over baby Neal in their perfect little happily ever after whilst saying how _sorry_ they are for Regina, is repellent, and her facade is not strong enough yet to talk to Emma. She'll make herself text later.

And so she gets in her car and drives without thinking, until she finds herself at the harbor. She gets out, and stares at the boats, eventually sitting on a bench as she watches them bob gently up and down in the lapping waves. It's therapeutic, somehow, the air and the water and the solitude, and she barely hears the sound of footsteps approaching behind her before a figure sits down on the adjacent bench. And she barely needs to look, because of course it's _her_ , invading Regina's peace, her hair blowing in the breeze as she sits there in that ghastly red pleather jacket, looking for all the world like a wounded puppy.

“Regina-”

“No. Do _not_ say _anything_ , Miss Swan. I have no desire to talk to you” Her lips are pursed in a thin line, and she stares steadfastly ahead, refusing to catch Emma's eye, refusing for fear that she might reveal the weakness that she's barely tucked away.

And Emma obeys, but she doesn't go away, she simply sighs sadly and removes her gaze from Regina, staring out at the boats. And Regina knows that she should transport herself home immediately, that this is dangerous, but she can't quite bring herself to leave. And as the seconds pass, she's starting to feel something again, and the anger at Emma and herself is still there, and the sadness, but changed, as if Emma's presence has calmed it somehow, even though this situation is entirely Emma's fault. And then she realises what it is, that the dark magic swirling in her stomach is mingling with her new, light magic, and it feels...she's not sure what it feels, but there's hope in there, there's something comforting and sustaining.

And so they sit there in silence, both staring straight ahead and avoiding the other's gaze, but it's at least five minutes before Regina can finally summon the will to get up and walk to her car.

Once she leaves, she refuses to think at all about her meeting with Emma, pushing the new sensation back – with the accompanying anger and pain - into the numbness that allows her to function. She goes home, she makes herself dinner, runs the dishwasher, watches a documentary, loses herself in decades old routines. And when, as she undresses for bed, she finds that her cuts, under the gauze, are completely healed, her skin free of even the slightest scar, she refuses to think about what that could mean, but, even in her numb state, she cannot help the slight smile that illuminates her features as she falls into a dreamless sleep.


	2. Punishment

It's purely coincidence, of course, that she finds herself back at the harbor at the same time the next day – she needed some air, and a walk and, anyway, it's highly unlikely that she'll run into Emma at the same spot twice, particularly when she calculates that Emma should be on duty all day.

Still, she can't help the twinge of disappointment that she feels when Emma isn't there.

She sits down anyway, and watches the water lap at the boats as they bob up and down. She's less numb today, but the intense, white hot anger has left her – it's mostly just the sadness, the emptiness, the aching chasm inside that only dark magic has ever been able to mask. And in it, through her head and through that hollow in her chest echoes Maleficent's decades-old warning: _a void you will never be able to fill._

 _No. No. My son. I have my son._ And it's Henry she thinks of to try and force the emptiness to ebb away, for _she still has him_. And he is enough; he is more than she ever deserves.

And it's Henry she's determinedly thinking of as Emma bumbles up behind her, breaking her musings: same awkward gait, same pleather monstrosity – made worse today by the addition of a truly _hideous_ beanie – same hesitant smile as she approaches and sits on the adjacent bench, two takeaway coffee cups in her hands. And Regina feels the emptiness ebb away a little more, but then has to swallow a wave of nausea as she realises how much she's comforted by Emma's mere presence. It's dangerous, indulging this, even allowing herself to recognise it, and yet she makes no move to leave.

“Sorry, I'm late,” Emma mumbles. “I – er – I thought you might like some coffee.”

“Late for what, dear?” she replies scornfully, eyebrow carefully arched as she catches Emma's eye for the first time since the diner, steeling her own gaze to try and avoid giving anything away. “I wasn't aware we had an appointment.”

“I know,” Emma says, her voice small and unsure. “But I dunno – somehow I thought you might be here.”

“Don't read too much into it, Miss Swan. I'm hardly minded to change my schedule simply to avert the risk of you following me around like a dejected puppy.”

“Okay,” Emma says simply, but there's a slight smile on her face, and Regina knows, however faulty the woman's supposed superpower may be, that she hasn't for a second bought the lie. “Anyway, Regina, I want to -”

“Miss Swan,” Regina intones sharply.

“Be quiet?”

“Yes.”

And Emma is, but, whilst Regina continues to stare out at the harbor, resolutely not meeting Emma's gaze, the blonde slowly slides one of the coffees onto the edge of Regina's bench. She considers rejecting the overture, but finds her hand slowly sliding around the cup, unable to resist picking it up and lifting it slowly to her lips. It's only coffee after all; drinking it doesn't mean that she's accepted _any_ of Emma's apologies. She doesn't look at Emma - and she imagines that Emma's trying equally hard not to look at her - but as they both sit there, looking straight ahead, sipping coffee, she feels that strange sensation rise again: a warmth that suffuses through her, like the deepest, darkest parts of her being are being bathed in all that's good, and warm, and light.

It's hard to leave it, but it's even more dangerous to stay, for this feeling is so seductive, so comforting, that it scares her, almost as much as the emptiness does. Plus, it would _not_ do for Emma to believe that she was forgiven, even though Regina finds she can't actually muster up that much remaining anger towards her. And so, after around five minutes, she places the coffee cup back on the bench, unfurls herself, and stands to walk back to her car.

“Tomorrow?” Emma asks softly to her retreating figure, sounding almost childlike. And Regina doesn't look at her, but nods almost imperceptibly, feeling her magic – her new, light magic - swell in her fingers as she walks away.

* * *

 

The next day, when Regina arrives just after one, Emma is already there, two coffees in hand, sat on her bench, and Regina doesn't protest when Emma hands a coffee directly to her, their fingertips brushing for the slightest second as Regina takes the cup.

Emma doesn't move to speak, this time, and so they sit there, watching the boats in companionable silence, occasionally sneaking furtive glances at one another when they believe the other isn't looking. Regina feels that delicious warmth creep through her again, and almost basks in it, letting it wrap her up like a cosy blanket as the cool breeze from the sea bathes her face. And then, they both glance at each other at the same time, and, as their eyes meet and Regina sees the wan smile on Emma's face, she simply can't find any real anger left.

“I suppose I should ask who, Miss Swan, is wrangling the small animal population of Storybrooke whilst you are shirking your duties to drink coffee and stare at boats?”

Emma looks at her, surprised. “I thought you didn't want to -”

“On the contrary, I am perfectly able to conduct a civil conversation with you. So long, of course, as you do not make _any_ effort to apologise for your complete idiocy back in The Enchanted Forest.”

Emma nods, looking confusedly at Regina before staring back at her coffee. “But I -”

“ _No apologies_ , Miss Swan,” Regina interrupts with a glare. “Now, did you understand my question, or do I need to rephrase it in the one syllable words that comprise your vocabulary?”

Emma simply rolls her eyes, not rising to the bait. “I swapped shifts with David. All week.”

“I see. Why?”

“Well, you know, sometimes I get bored of being Pongo's personal minder and feel like a week of throwing paper basketballs into the trash and picking up Leroy from The Rabbit Hole at 2am. You know, variety is the spice of life and all that,” Emma shrugs, sipping on her coffee and suppressing a smile.

“It's good to see that our tax dollars are so well spent,” Regina replies archly, but there's little malice in it. The bickering is a rapprochement, of sorts, and she can see from the twinkle in Emma's eyes, and the slight upturn of her lips, that she's grateful for it too.

They've slowly drifted closer, both leaning every so slightly over the arms of their respective benches into one another, and Regina's glad to note that the warmth is still there, that it was not fragile enough to be broken by speech.

“Plus, I think Snow wants to make sure my dad gets his fair share of screaming baby at 2am.”

“Ah yes, how is the latest addition to the Idiot clan?”

Emma smiles, but Regina can see that it's not entirely genuine, and she feels a wave of guilt, because, well, it's mostly her fault that Emma grew up alone, and is now having to watch her brother enjoy everything she didn't have. “He's – well, to be honest, he's mostly red, and loud, but I suppose it's nice to have a brother. I think it'll be easier once Henry and I have moved out.”

And at that, the warmth vanishes in an instant, and the white hot anger surges back, for surely, after all this desperation to secure her forgiveness, Emma can't _still_ be planning on– _no_. 

“Miss Swan, I will _not_ let you take my son away from me again. If you still wish to run off to New York, then be my guest, but you have taken _everything_ else from me, and you will _not_ take Henry.” And she slams her coffee down on the bench and roars up, preparing to march away, but there's a desperate hand on her upper arm, pulling her back down towards the bench.

She looks at Emma, about to yell, to demand that Emma remove her hand, but stops when she sees Emma's face, which is frozen in utter panic, pain and guilt and regret all etched across her features. “No!” Emma whispers in a broken voice. “I'm _not_ taking him away. I'm _not_ leaving you.”

And Regina's stunned, staring at her blankly, and Emma stares back, wide eyed, before correcting “I mean, er, I'm not leaving you without him.” And Regina swallows and nods, because of course Emma didn't mean that – no, it was ridiculous even to _think_ it, not to mention dangerous, because she can't let herself have even the slightest hope, can't dare to indulge herself in thinking that Emma – the one person who could finally destroy her – could ever, ever....

“Look, Regina, I know that you said no apologies, but let me – threatening to take Henry away from you again, that was awful of me. I was just so scared, and everything was so complicated here, and I'm a _coward_ , Regina, and my gut instinct was to run. Look, you gave me the best life in New York, and I've never really thanked you, but that, well, it's the kindest thing anyone's _ever_ done for me.”

And Emma's voice is pleading, and her face is desperate, her eyes filled with tears, and Regina is torn between wanting to hit her and wanting to gather her up in a hug, because they both keep hurting each other so much, and yet they're still here, sat on a bench, relying on the other to make it better.

In the end, she does neither, but merely picks her coffee back up and takes a sip, trying to compose her face and willing the tears back from her own eyes. But it's pointless, and when she looks at Emma, she simply hopes she doesn't give too much away, doesn't give everything away.

“I'd like to see him,” she says, smiling sadly.

“Yeah?”

“Yes.”

“Okay, do you want me to bring him over this evening? He could stay over, and you could drop him at school in the morning?”

And at that, her smile brightens a little, the thought of her son always a balm over the broken edges inside her. “Yes – I mean, if he wants to see me.”

“Of course he wants to,” Emma says, and she's smiling, and it's so honest, so sincere, that Regina can't help beaming back. “He loves you, Regina.”

“I – I know,” Regina says, and she _does_ , and it's all that she can do to keep from sobbing, because between her son, and Emma's impossible smile, it's like everything is overflowing, like that void inside her is bubbling over with just too _much_ feeling, more than she knows what to do with. Steeling herself, because she _can't_ let Emma see, she gulps and turns her head back towards the boats. And when Emma reaches across the gap between the benches and rests her hand gently on top of Regina's, she doesn't – she _can't_ \- turn to look at her, just as surely as she can't bring herself to push the comforting hand away. And so they sit there, one hand on another, staring out to sea, and Regina knows that it's too late, she's lost, she can deny it no longer.

This is her punishment.


End file.
